These days, the sun sleeps against
a wistful twisting of violet blue.
Pretention? Brake pad. You
told me that
my cadence is lyrical,
so, which is it, Mister?
I know myself to hell.
The mistake I keep making
is letting another tell
me they know me
just as well.
I mean, maybe.
I mean, maybe.
-- though, the more often you say it,
I can't help but think that the odds
come up in your favor ever less.
I know myself to hell.
The mistake I keep making
is letting another tell
me they know me
just as well.
May 6, 2019
May 6, 2019 at 9:22 PM UTC
These days, the sun sleeps against
a wistful twisting of violet blue.
Pretention? Brake pad. You
told me that
my cadence is lyrical,
so, which is it, Mister?
I know myself to hell.
The mistake I keep making
is letting another tell
me they know me
just as well.
I mean, maybe.
I mean, maybe.
-- though, the more often you say it,
I can't help but think that the odds
come up in your favor ever less.
I know myself to hell.
The mistake I keep making
is letting another tell
me they know me
just as well.
